


together

by canniballistics



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, like boss level gay, the gayest gaylords in gaytown
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 05:53:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2840423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canniballistics/pseuds/canniballistics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky smiles, knows from the very roots of his soul that this is right where he's supposed to be, if not now then for the rest of his life, too.</p><p> </p><p>some of the little touches and embraces throughout their lives. <b>previously known as <i>thunder only happens when it's raining</i>.</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. first - 1927

**Author's Note:**

  * For [007](https://archiveofourown.org/users/007/gifts).



> this was supposed to be a birthday fic, but then stuff happened and now it's super late and also there are chapters to it??? what happened what's going on stares at hands dejectedly and then lays on the floor

The year after they become friends, Steve spends Christmas laid up in bed. It can't be helped, Sarah Rogers explains to a ten-year-old Bucky, with a sad little smile on her face that makes his heart drop. He notices the way she wrings her hands, though, the way her face seems extra tired. Doesn't say anything about it, and when he gives her the flowers he'd picked for her along the way, she finally agrees to let him come in and say hi. At least long enough to give Steve his gift he says, and when he gets into the room, he almost doesn't see him for how many blankets are piled on the bed. ( Borrowed from the neighbors, Sarah tells him, and Bucky can't helping getting mad at himself for not bringing one too. ) Sarah makes him promise not to stay too long so he doesn't get sick too, and watches from the doorway as he steps into the room. 

When he glances back to look at her, Sarah's arms are crossed over her chest and there's a fierce look on her face. He recognizes it in Steve's movements, the protective posture and eyes searching for any misdeeds. It's tempered by a weariness that Steve doesn't share though, and when she realizes he's looking at her, Sarah gives him a little smile. Bucky's heart swells, and he creeps back, stands on tiptoes to kiss her cheek and smile. The sharp expression leaves her face then, replaced with surprise.

"You're a good mom," Bucky whispers to her, and Sarah's eyes go shiny and wet. "Steve's lucky to have you."

"Thank you, James." Sarah ruffles his hair, laughing quietly. "I'm glad you're his friend. He needs good boys like you around."

His cheeks go warm at that, and for a second he considers challenging the compliment. But it's not the time or place, so Bucky gives her another smile before tiptoeing back to Steve's bedside. He's a sight to see, sweating and trembling and most of the ways to unconscious. Bucky's hands tighten on his gift, and he can't help feeling guilty for it; if he'd known Steve wasn't doing so good he woulda gotten him something that might have actually helped. As it stands, the special drawing pencils his ma had helped him pick out feel painfully inadequate, and for a second, he considers just setting them on the bedside and leaving.

"Happy Christmas, Stevie," Bucky murmurs as he sets the present on the nightstand, and he's quick to turn to leave.

That is, until a tug at his sleeve stops him, and when he looks, there's a hand gripping onto it. Steve smiles when Bucky meets his eyes, wheezing quietly at him. "Bucky? Why're you here?"

There's a laugh. "S'Christmas. I got you somethin'." Bucky motions to the gift, then pauses before adding, "You don't hafta open it now, though, it can wait. Y'gotta get better first."

Steve sighs, and Bucky swears he can hear the breath rattling in his chest. "Be fine soon, Buck. You'll see."

He closes his eyes as he falls back asleep, and when his grip slips, Bucky catches Steve's hand in his own. His skin is hot to the touch, even though he's trembling, and Bucky can't help the little seed of worry that starts in his chest. He'd never thought about it before; sure, he's seen Steve have one of his attacks, and he knows he's gotta have special lunch and stuff, but nothing like this. What if he doesn't get better? 

Bucky tucks Steve's hand back under the covers, and something clicks into place in his head. He makes his way back to Sarah maybe a little faster than he should, but she's smiling when he gets there. Bucky glances down and away as he thinks of how to phrase it, bites at his lip before looking to meet her eyes. "Can I sit with him a little while?"

The surprise is plain on her face, and Sarah bends over a little so they're face to face. "I don't know if that's a good idea, James. He's very sick, and he'd be mad at himself if he infected you too."

He grins wide, trying to reassure her. "I'll be okay. Ma says I'm stronger'n most boys, I swear I won't catch anything." Bucky gets quiet then, studying her face. Sarah Rogers is always really pretty, but today it's tempered with bags under her eyes he hadn't noticed before, and he can't help thinking of the tired smile she'd given him earlier. He's almost shy about it as he suggests, "'Sides, you look like you could use a rest. I'll take care of him for a while. Promise I won't let nothin' happen."

Sarah hesitates, and Bucky knows that the prospect of leaving a nine year old in the care of a boy not much older isn't a lot of comfort. But he hopes he's proven he's worthy of her trust in the time he and Steve have been friends, and when she leans to kiss his forehead, there's a smile that comes with it. "All right. But only for an hour, okay? After that, you've got to get home to your family. I'm sure they'll miss you if you're gone too long."

It's not true, but he doesn't tell her that — Ma's got her hands too full with cooking and the new baby, and his old man won't be home until late. He's got at least a few hours, and Bucky grins wide when Sarah gives him that permission, then trots back over to Steve's bedside. "Hey Steve. I'm gonna give your mom a break, okay?" He pulls the chair from the desk by the window, plants himself on it. "S'just you'n me, pal, I'll take good care of ya." Bucky glances up to see Sarah watching them, and the two of them share a smile before she closes the door quietly. 

The first ten minutes pass in silence with Bucky sitting ramrod-straight on the edge of the chair, ready to jump for anything Steve needs. Instead, he just sleeps, and as those ten minutes pass Bucky's enthusiasm starts to flag. He refuses to give up, though, and after another ten minutes he realizes that the towel on Steve's forehead has slid off. He reaches to fix it, brushes his fingers against hot skin — and Steve gasps. 

"S'cold," he mumbles, shifting under the blankets, and Bucky swears his heart starts banging around loud enough in his chest for Steve hear it too; he only hopes he's too sick to notice. 

It's a weird feeling, and it scares him at first. He pulls his hand back on instinct, fascinated as Steve groans, rolls his head in search of that touch. Just little movements; he's too sick for much else. Bucky pauses for just a second, considering what he's about to do, before laying his hand across Steve's forehead. His fever is much more apparent with the full-on touch, but he settles almost immediately, breathing calming down to something closer to normal. Bucky smiles, and when Steve cracks open his eyes, his heart soars.

"Bucky?" He sniffles, and it's almost a pathetic sound. "What're you doing here?"

"Takin' care of you," comes the easy response, as though Steve hadn't already asked him before, and somehow, it just feels right.

Steve nods, as if it's normal for Bucky to be there, as if it's normal for him to take care of him, before closing his eyes. "Feels nice."

His heart starts thrashing around again, and even though Bucky doesn't understand what it means, it's a good feeling. He brushes Steve's hair back, daubs at his temples with the towel, before setting his hand on his forehead again and watching him fall asleep again. Watching over Steve like this feels good. It feels natural. Bucky smiles, knows from the very roots of his soul that this is right where he's supposed to be, if not now then for the rest of his life, too.

Sarah walks in a little less than half an hour later and has to stop herself at the door. Laughs quietly to herself, and she sets down the mugs of hot chocolate she'd been carrying to fetch the blanket from her bed and drape it over Bucky's shoulders where he's fallen asleep at Steve's side. She pulls in another chair from the little table outside, and sits down with a magazine.

When Bucky wakes, he's got a crick in his neck and his back is sore. But when he looks up and sees Sarah dozing on the other side of Steve's bed and feels a skinny hand in his hair, it's the first time he's known what it feels like to be home.


	2. second - 1932

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the boys take a field trip to coney island.

"Hey Steve, you ever been to Coney Island before?" 

He asks it one day after school, idly plucking stalks of grass while Steve reclines against a tree with his sketchbook in his lap. It's one of the good days, where Steve's allergies don't make it impossible for him to be anywhere but home and school, and Bucky swears there's only a little bit of red at his elbows where the grass irritates his skin. Steve looks over at him, a mess of blond hair and blue eyes and a nose that promises to become strong when he's older, and frowns. 

"You know I ain't. Why?"

Bucky shrugs, pulls out two particularly long blades of grass and ties them together. "We should go sometime." A pause, thinking about it, and he nods to himself. "We got nothin' to do tomorrow, let's go then." 

Steve scoffs before returning to his drawing. "It's a Wednesday tomorrow, Bucky. We got school."

"Or we could _not_ have school," he counters, and Bucky shoots him a wicked little grin as he tries to tie more grass together. He rolls onto his back, watches Steve frown, and he can see that the phrase doesn't make sense — until he thinks about it for a minute and it does.

"Okay," Steve says. He sets his pencil down, plucks the grass from Bucky's fingers and starts pulling them apart and dropping them on his face piece by piece. "How're we gonna get there, smart guy?"

Bucky grins as the grass dusts his forehead and cheeks. "You just leave that to me, okay? I'll take care of it."

Steve gives him a look bordering on disapproving, but he doesn't question it. Bucky's grin only widens, and when they split off for the evening, they make an agreement to meet in the park instead of going to school. Bucky spends the rest of his night emptying his jar of savings into his backpack, kiting a couple more sandwiches than he knows he should and squirreling those away into his bag too. It all gets hidden under a notebook or two, nothing too heavy, and when he looks up and sees Bee and the baby watching him, he holds a finger to his lips. They giggle delightedly before Mrs. Barnes comes in to send them all to bed, and not even the sound of his parents' hushed voices arguing outside can dampen his spirits.

The next morning, Bucky wakes feeling half dead. Staying up half the night imagining the sort of adventures he and Steve are gonna have wasn't such a good idea, he learns, and when he gets to the park and sees Steve standing there, he greets him with a big yawn. Steve grins, his eyebrows rising just a little.

"Morning. Rough night at the office?"

Bucky laughs, shoving him with a shoulder. "Oh yeah, I got into a fight with the filing cabinet. Damn thing wanted to eat my favorite tie." He stretches, groaning quietly as he does, and when he looks back at Steve, there's a smile on his face. "You ready to go?"

"Ready as I'll ever be."

The bus ride is mostly uneventful; they claim an entire seat to themselves, watching as more and more passengers climb on, until an elderly couple boards. Steve's the first to jump up and offer his spot, and Bucky has no real choice but to follow suit. Still, it's worth it for the little look of pride on Steve's face and the butterscotch candies the old lady presses into their hands. By the time the bus pulls into the depot, Bucky's veins thrum with excitement, his earlier exhaustion gone. The clerk at the ticket counter gives them a hairy look when they walk up, but once he hands over the money, everything goes smoothly. They both take their first steps into the amusement park and pause, eyes wide. 

"Holy cow," Steve murmurs, his shoulder bumping into Bucky's as he edges closer.

"Yeah," is all Bucky can think of to agree with him. 

The spell is broken when a kid darts between them, knocking them off balance and sending a yelling parent with a baby buggy careening after them. The boys look at each other, grins breaking out on their faces simultaneously, and they run up to the first ride.

The first half of the day goes great. They ride a couple of rides, eat the sandwiches Bucky'd packed, and sit around for a little while to recuperate as Steve sketches. (And somehow, it doesn't surprise him that Steve had brought his sketchbook. If anything, it'd be weirder if he _didn't_ , and Bucky doesn't notice the slight smile that crosses his own face as he watches Steve draw.) 

For a while, at least, it's easy to pretend that they're two normal kids, that Steve's dad isn't dead and his old lady isn't working herself to the bone, or that Bucky's own folks don't argue near every night when they think the kids are asleep, and he doesn't have to tell the babies stories to drown out angry voices. For a few hours, they're just regular kids. The illusion fractures a little bit every time an adult stops them to ask where their parents are, but it's easy enough to lie and point to the nearest bored-looking couple. It shatters completely when the afternoon starts growing long, when they hop off the Cyclone and Steve totters over to a trash can to evacuate the contents of his stomach. Bucky rubs his back as he does, feeling a little bit guilty for it, and when Steve finishes, they agree that it might be time to go home.

The bus ride is mostly uneventful this time, the two of them sharing as much of a seat as they can in the crowded space. Bucky doesn't think anything of it when Steve's head drops onto his shoulder, until he realizes that he's not moving to pick it back up. He looks down at him, and it feels like his heart grows three sizes when he realizes Steve's dozed off on him, head on his shoulder and drawing book in his hands. They hadn't won any prizes, along of not being able to bring them home, but as he watches the way the sun shines off Steve's hair, he makes a quiet promise that the next time they come here, he's gonna win him something good. Bucky wraps an arm around Steve's shoulder to pull him just a little closer, and after a few minutes, he dozes off too.


	3. third - 1939

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> steve vs winter seems to be a constant losing fight.

They're most of the way to prepared when winter starts setting in. Steve's the one who feels it first as it starts to crawl into his lungs, and despite his protests, Bucky always does what he can to make sure they're ready for it. Whether that means beating up Steve's already busted radiator to get it going again, going shopping for hours to buy bargain-priced blankets (that never usually last them the whole year), or putting in extra hours at work to make sure the gas never gets turned off, he's on it. This winter is no different, and Steve sulks as Bucky slides the hot bottle under the covers at the foot of his bed.

"Y'don't gotta do this, Buck, I can take care of myself," he insists, punctuating the sentence with a loud sniffle.

Bucky grins as he idly smooths the blankets down. "Alright, now say that again, and this time try not to sound like you just spent a few hours in the bay." It erupts into a full blown laugh at the scowl Steve sends him, but he gets a little quieter after a minute, looks down at his shoes as he shrugs. "C'mon, Steve. You only got a cold now, but I seen what happens when it gets worse. I know y'don't like me fussing, but to be perfectly honest with you, I kinda do. I'm here and don't mind besides; just lemme do this for you, huh?"

The room goes silent for a couple minutes at that, but at least Steve isn't still protesting. Instead, he shuffles further under the covers, glare tempered back down into a petulant pout. "Y'know I'm a grown man, right, Buck? That sick little kid ain't me anymore."

 _Tell that to the pneumonia you got last year_ , Bucky thinks. He doesn't feel like teasing him with the truth, though, manages to keep from saying it. Instead, he rolls his eyes. "Maybe so, but I—"

"—made a promise to my mom, I know. S'not like you keep reminding me or anything," Steve grouses, but there's no real fire behind it. "Pretty sure she didn't mean for you to take her place."

"I wouldn't want to." The words come automatically, so solemn and so honest that it takes both men by surprise. Bucky can see it in Steve's face as he works over the words, trying to figure out what he really means. Has to stop him before he gets any funny ideas— "Can you imagine, chasing skirts with your Ma? Only the best for her boy, and — nurses got primo access to rubbers, right? So you can be damn sure she'd send you off prepared. Once she approved of your girl, of course."

A laugh erupts from Steve's mouth at the idea, but it's quick to devolve into a coughing fit. Bucky moves to thump him on the back and rub his shoulders, trying to help get it back under control. He doesn't hear any of that wet sound in it, at least, that would signify the onset of something more serious. It's the biggest relief he could ask for, and when Steve finally gets his breath back, he punches Bucky in the arm.

"Great, now the next time I take a girl out, I'm gonna imagine both you and Ma standing there to chaperone." Steve grins, rubs the back of his hand across his nose. "Does that mean I gotta get your seal of approval, if you're her stand-in?"

"Nah. We both know your standards are too high anyway." 

He misses the snarky comment Steve shoots back at him, suddenly distracted by a thought. For some reason, the idea of Steve with a girl sends a sick twist through his gut. Bucky grins back to hide the nausea, ruffles his hand through Steve's hair so he can't see his expression. He doesn't like it at all, the thought of a girl getting to do similar things with him. Maybe more, if Steve was feeling it. It completely distracts him, the grin slow as it disappears off his face. He doesn't want a girl to touch Steve like this. ( No guys either, but that's not something they ever talked about, and he wouldn't know how to bring it up anyhow. ) He doesn't want anyone to be so familiar with him; even worse, this hypothetical gal doesn't even exist yet. What's he thinking, getting jealous of some nonexistent person? 

_What the hell are you doing, Barnes?_

"Buck? You okay?"

When Bucky snaps out of it, his hand has slid from Steve's hair, fingers clamped around his shoulder. It's a possessive gesture, he realizes, and he pulls his hand back like he's been burned. _Damn_ it—

The amusement goes out of Steve's face then, and he frowns as he looks at him. "Hey, what's wrong?"

"Nothin', Steve. It's nothing." A little laugh, trying to recover. "I just got distracted thinking, is all."

"Wasn't about me doing the tango with a girl, was it?" Steve frowns, and there's something comical about how it sits on his face. "You might be my best friend, but I'm pretty sure you critiquing my every move would kill the mood."

Bucky bursts out laughing at the crass joke, eyes wide as he looks at Steve. The crease works itself out from where it's made a home between Steve's eyebrows at the sound, and Bucky has to sock him in the shoulder. "Y'know, I actually got some scorecards back at my place, I'll pick 'em up next time I come over."

It doesn't have the desired effect; instead, the words make Steve pause, and a quiet curse slips out when he looks over at the clock. "Speaking of — you got work in the morning, don't you?"

Bucky's eyes follow the same path Steve's took towards the clock. It's about half past eleven now, inching its way toward midnight. He hadn't meant to stay this long; it was only supposed to be dinner and a couple hands of cards, but then Steve started coughing… 

"Why don't you bunk over for the night?" Bucky looks back over at Steve at the suggestion, can't help wishing he could pretend that the color in his cheeks was anything other than the start of a cold. "S'too cold out there tonight anyway and you're already here — whaddaya say?" 

"Sure," and a cheeky smirk crosses Bucky's face. "But only if I get to climb in there with you, since it's _so_ cold out."

"Aw, can it." Steve grins back, reaches behind him to throw a pillow at his head. "You know where the spare stuff is, ya big mook."

"Y'know I'm keeping this, right?" Bucky tucks the pillow under his arm before heading to the door and turning back to look at him. "You're breakin' my heart, Stevie, but I forgive you." He blows him an overexaggerated kiss, winking as he adds, "This time."

The door clicks shut behind him as Steve laughs again, and Bucky can hear it turn into another coughing fit. Instinct tells him to bust right back in and make sure he didn't just kill his best friend with a dumb joke, but after a minute, Steve gets himself settled. Bucky leans against the wall next to the door once it's quiet, lets out a deep breath as he thinks about that "dumb joke", and presses his face into a palm. What in the fresh hell was he thinking? 

"You'd better watch your step," he murmurs to himself before pushing off the wall.

The closet where Steve keeps the spare bedthings isn't usually this empty, but it's understandable since most of the blankets are spread across his bed, so Bucky takes the few that are left and heads out into the living room. He's over enough that he's got some spare clothes in Steve's closet, so it's nothing for him to kick off anything that might be uncomfortable and just sleep in his underthings. 

None of this seems strange to him until he lays down on the couch with Steve's pillow tucked beneath him. A deep breath as he settles in, and his eyes go wide when he's hit with the smell of Steve's soap. His soap, his shampoo, and something that he swears could be sunlight ( though Steve would probably refute that ). His blood immediately starts pounding through his veins, and he has to start thinking about earlier. The dumb jokes, the weird jealousy, the knot in his stomach. It shocks him out of any pretense of sleep, and Bucky can't help but laugh at the realization, scrubbing a hand over his face.

Shit.

"I got it bad, don't I?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, bucky. yes you do. :(


	4. fourth - 1943

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> every cloud has a silver lining.

It's three days since the surviving men of the 107th were pulled back together that they finally get to talk. Three days since _Captain America_ rescued a good 200 soldiers from the grips of an enemy camp. Three days since Steve Rogers saved his life, after he thought he'd never see him again. It's been three days, and Bucky still isn't sure he's ready.

He'd resigned himself to death as soon as they'd been captured, thanked his lucky stars (if they could be called that) that Steve hadn't been there to share his fate. He'd decided that whatever they did to him, it couldn't be any worse than betraying his country — than betraying Steve. Bucky figured he'd go out the way Steve probably always imagined it for himself: refusing to give in, and protecting everything that was important to him. ( Steve probably hadn't thought anything about going out thinking of Bucky, and that was alright; it was something no one needed to know anyway. )

He hadn't been prepared to survive it, was the thing.

It's been a busy three days, what with nurses and chaplains and their fellow soldiers looking over him and the guys, and Colonel Phillips wanting full debriefings from everyone. Steve'd been first, seeing as he'd been the one to save everyone, and then he'd been after, once they got everything they wanted from Steve. Bucky told them what he knew, what he'd seen, and some of what they'd done to him, and when they finally let him go, he was glad to be gone. The world seemed different now, shaded; he'd learned the hard way at mess, the second day, that he couldn't exactly see things the same as the others anymore, that being around too many people for too long started wearing on him in a bad way. He'd since managed to avoid big crowds, and even more important, managed to avoid Steve. Figured that it couldn't last.

So when Steve comes to him three days after they make it back to camp, Bucky's not sure how to look at him. It's a mystery how he's supposed to face him now, when he'd been ready to die back on the exam table. ( When he'd been ready to die thinking of Steve. ) Steve had saved him, sure, but now, after having had time to think about it, he knows it won't be the same. Steve had probably come in thinking he found the same old Bucky, but he's a different man now from the one who left him in Brooklyn. And as much as he hates to admit it, he's afraid that Steve won't like this one very much.

It's an awkward kind of dance they do when they finally come face to face. Bucky's found that no one really comes around the chaplain's tent unless they're looking for guidance; as long as he's quiet, nobody notices him sitting around the backside of the tent, leaning against the trees. He's pretty sure he stopped believing in that stuff before he turned 15, but there's no denying that there's a familiar sort of comfort in listening to the men pray. It's during one of these visits that Steve catches him sitting there, and it's an awkward position: if he makes some excuse and tries to shuffle away, Steve'll definitely stop him, it'll get loud, the occupants will hear and his hiding spot will be blown. But if he sticks around, he and Steve are finally gonna have to talk, and that's something Bucky isn't so sure he can handle right now. Maybe ever.

Still, the longer he looks at him, the more he knows there was never any choice.

Their eyes meet, and Bucky can see something relax in Steve's face, like a nerve that stopped being pinched. Relief, at finally getting a second alone with him. There isn't a word between them, only the sound of the chaplain droning with another soldier clumsily following along, and after what feels like a lifetime, Steve just plants himself on the ground next to him. The movement is far more graceful than it has any right to be, and yet Bucky can still see echoes of the gawky kid in it, in the way a knee almost catches his cheek, the heavy huff as Steve's rear meets the ground. The chaplain stops praying, the soldier trailing off after him, and there's a pregnant pause where both pairs of men hold their breath: one listening hard for any sign of outsiders, the other keeping silent and hoping not to be caught. 

After a moment, the praying continues, and Steve shoots him a little grin before relaxing back against the shared tree and closing his eyes. Bucky can barely feel their shoulders brush through the thick material of their uniforms, but it's enough to send a heat flooding through him. He risks a glance over at him, tries not to check off all the things that are different about him now. ( _His jaw is sharper. Shoulders and chest are broader. Arms huge as sin. Taller than I am, the punk._ ) Steve's changed, and it hits him like a rifle round to the chest to realize that his feelings for him haven't. Maybe, just maybe… It gives him a shade of hope that Steve's feelings haven't, either.

It takes close to ten minutes for the chaplain and the soldier to finish praying, and when they exit the tent, he and Steve instinctually duck down, trying to cover each other so they don't get spotted by the chaplain's roving eye. Once he's gone, and the situation hits, they both burst out laughing. 

" _Thanks_ , Steve. I finally find the one quiet spot in camp, and you nearly blow it for me." Bucky punches him in the shoulder, and this time he doesn't hold back nearly as much as he once would have. 

Steve shoves him in response, and Bucky falls over a little more than he means to. ( _Strong as hell, too. Shoulda remembered that one._ ) "Yeah, well maybe I wouldn't have risked it if you hadn't kept avoiding me."

The mood sobers up immediately, the smile dropping off Bucky's face. Steve's vanishes immediately as well, when he realizes it was the wrong thing to say. "Buck—" And there's a pause, and Bucky can see it in his face when he decides to soldier on. "Why _were_ you avoiding me?"

Bucky just stares at him as a list of possible answers flash through his head. ( _I'm not the same guy you watched ship off. You pulled me outta hell when I was ready to die. I was ready to die_ for you. ) He doesn't say any of them, averting his eyes and tugging at the blades of grass poking up between his fingers. "Honestly, I didn't know what I was gonna say to you." 

Steve's quiet for so long that it starts to worry him. Bucky risks a look back at him, and there's a pinprick crease between his brows. It's so familiar that it hurts. ( _Same expressions. Same voice. He might look different, but— he's still the same old Steve._ ) "Well, hi woulda been a good start."

The suggestion is so absurd that a laugh bursts out of him. "Hah, right! 'Hi, Steve. Thanks for saving my ass. You look good, been working out?'"

"You know what I mean," Steve insists darkly. And then, his expression hardens, and it takes Bucky a minute to realize he's mad at himself. "I came as soon as I could. I'm only sorry it wasn't sooner."

"Stop it," comes the quick response, and Bucky can feel his gorge rising in his throat. _Why is Steve blaming himself?_ "The hell do you think you're doing, Steve? S'not like you coulda known what was going on. None of us did." He looks away, leaning back against the tree again as he tries to choke that sick feeling back down. "They make it look _so_ easy in the pictures. And it's all a lie."

There's a soft laugh from Steve. "I heard a couple'a guys singing a little while ago. _Gory, gory what a helluva way to die_." His voice is low and soft as he sings that single line, and Bucky can't help leaning in just a little. Steve shrugs. "We're not exactly paratroopers, but I think it still counts."

It's darker than Bucky expects, coming from Steve, and he glances over at him. There's lines on his face that weren't there last he remembers, a faraway look in his eyes that he recognizes from other soldiers. It hits him then that Steve never should've been here. Not without the same training Bucky had been through, at least, and the way he's heard the other guys tell it, Steve hasn't even been on this side of the ocean a week yet. There's no way he could've been prepared for this. Crashing a HYDRA facility, finding his best friend half the way to dead, seeing the wounded men up close and personal, nearly dying himself — how's he still upright and mobile?

Bucky nudges him with his elbow, nods when he gets his attention. His voice is quiet, and even if no one's around, it's meant for just the two of them. "You okay, pal?"

A hard little smile quirks Steve's lips, his eyes dipping away for just a second before he looks back at him. "I honestly don't know, Buck. But I will be, now I know you're safe."

He nods. It's the truth, despite how he wishes it didn't have to be. No matter how much Bucky frets over him, Steve'll be okay. He's nothing if not resilient, a fact they learned the hard way. Bucky settles back against the tree, closes his eyes and considers dozing off before it hits him. 

_Now I know you're safe._

He catches Steve watching him when he opens his eyes, but he doesn't look away. Bucky pauses just a little. "Steve—"

The rest of the question gets cut off; time seems to move in slow motion as Steve dips in close to him, brushes their lips together. It's not a real kiss, far from it. Bucky knows from kisses, and this can't be counted as one. Hell, if Steve jerked back and made some excuse right now, it could even be considered an accident. But he doesn't do anything of the sort, and a thrill goes down Bucky's spine at the look he gives him. Of course he wouldn't. It's not in Steve's nature. Never has been.

Steve's expression breaks, and the smile he gives him is helpless, fraught with fear and hope and something else that Bucky's scared to put a name to. "Thank you," he murmurs, "for still being alive when I got there." He leans in, presses his forehead to Bucky's shoulder. "I think I would have burned them all to the ground if— otherwise."

"Well, you already did that," Bucky drawls.

"Hey now, I didn't _start_ the fires," Steve laughs quietly. 

He sits up, settles against the tree next to Bucky again, and both men go quiet. Bucky can't even consider taking a catnap now, too wired from whatever just happened. He sits, waiting for Steve to explain himself, and when he doesn't, Bucky frowns. "Steve."

"Yeah?" 

"You gonna tell me what that was, or…?"

"What…" The frown that creases Steve's brow is so endearing it hurts, and when he realizes what Bucky's asking about, he blanches. "Oh. God. I'm sorry, Buck, I got caught up; ever since we were kids I just— I should've asked you first, made sure you were okay with—" 

For once, Steve's flustered for words, and it makes Bucky's heart soar with fondness. He just laughs as Steve stumbles, and after a few seconds, it turns into something big, something real. It's the first time he's laughed like this since coming overseas, and Steve looks visibly shaken at it. Hell. He should say something, he doesn't want him getting the wrong impression.

"Shit, Steve." Bucky wipes a tear from his eye, smiling wide at him. "And here I've been secretly pining over you for years, goddamn years. You mean to tell me that it's been mutual?" 

Steve's eyes widen at the words, and when he grins, Bucky can see how the skinny twerp he fell for and this big meathead might be one and the same. Steve turns his entire body toward him, clasping Bucky's hands in his. "Bucky Barnes, I've been mad about you since the day we took off school to go to Coney Island. Before that too, probably; I just don't think I knew it back then."

Bucky grins wide, wraps an arm around the back of Steve's neck to pull him closer. "Get the hell over here. We got a lot of catching up to do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the song steve sings is "blood on the risers", a much more gruesome parody of "battle hymn of the republic"!


	5. fifth - 1991

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "i dream. sometimes i think that's the only right thing to do." - haruki murakami

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bonus scene in the end notes. no beta for this chapter, because i live life on the edge.

It's a cold night in Brooklyn, colder than usual, with a chill that isn't shy about settling deep. The moon shines full and bright through the window, cutting hazy shapes on the wall where the curtains can't quite block out its light. He wakes with a start, jerking out of a heavy sleep with his heart racing and eyes wide. _Something isn't right._ Something isn't right, and he can't place what it is. He pats at the bed next to him blindly, panic rising in his throat until his fingertips find rough fabric and a skinny shoulder. A sudden flush of relief, reaching out to throw his arm around Steve and pull him back against his chest. He can feel the sleepy groan reverberate through that small chest as he burrows his face into the nape of his neck, kisses the knobby bone at the top of his spine. Steve doesn't respond past a quiet hum after that, and he sighs. It's cold. There's something bad about the cold; he knows it, even if he can't remember what it is. But Steve's here. It's okay. That creeping, pervading sense of dread eases up a little; it doesn't vanish completely, though the skinny chest wrapped in his arms makes him feel better about it.

_I could stay here_ , he thinks, gradually relaxing back into the bed and curling around Steve. _I_ want _to stay here_.

They both jump when an alarm rings out through the room, wide-eyed and terrified. He frowns, listening — this isn't possible. A bomb siren? Here, in New York? It doesn't sound exactly right, something off about the sound, but— 

_No. Please_.

Is this what he'd been dreading?

"A night raid," Steve mutters darkly, throwing the covers back to jump out of bed. _Wait, don't_ , he wants to say, tries to, but no sound comes out, only a hoarse croak. S▮eve doesn't seem to notice, throwing the curtains open to lean out of the window, try and gauge how long they've got. "They're comin' up fast. We gotta move."

_I don't want to go._

S▮eve turns back to look at him, a frown on his face. "▮▮▮▮▮, what are you doing? C'mon!" 

He stumbles out of the bed after him at that, only barely catching himself as he loses his footing — his arm feels numb, immaterial; did he sleep on it the wrong way? But he has to go, has to follow him. The apartment rattles as the first bomb hits, and even though it sends him to his knees, he watches as S▮ev▮ strides across the floor, sure-footed and unaffected. The next explosion is much closer, has him twisting away from the sound and clasping a hand to his head to try to make the ringing stop. How is this happening? Why here? Why now?

_Please don't make me go._

When he looks up again, S▮ev▮ is standing in front of the closet. He pulls out a suit — no. Not a suit. A uniform, outfitted with red and white stripes, and as he steps into it, he seems to grow taller, broader. A shield comes next, singing as he slides it onto his arm. He can only watch, falling bombs completely forgotten as he becomes someone new, someone… _better_. Someone he barely recognizes, and yet who is so familiar it hurts. There's another shout of his name, muted and distorted, before he reaches back into the closet to toss two items over to him. He freezes once he lays eyes on them, the breath catching in his chest.

The next explosion is close enough to send even S▮▮v▮ to the ground a couple feet away, blasts the glass out of the window, but it's only a dull roar as he stares down at the things he's been thrown: one a dark, olive green hat, familiar in its wear and bearing an officer's insignia over the brim; the other a sharp, curved metal plate with a red star emblazoned in the center of it. He reaches out as though hypnotized, cuts his fingers on the edge of the plate and watches as the blood drips to pool in his palm. He has to pick one of these. But which one is right? What is he supposed to do?

"Hey," comes the voice, surprising him out of his trance, and bright blue eyes stare back at him, worried for just a second before a smile eases his face. _Like a nerve that stopped being pinched_. One gloved hand settles on top of his, and despite everything, it's a comfort. "It's okay. I'm he—"

A roar rips through the building, interrupting him, and the world becomes violent flashes of dust and smoke for what feels like a lifetime. When the air clears enough to see through, the apartment's been torn in half, and S▮▮v▮ is nowhere to be seen. He looks around wildly before hearing a clatter and a grunt, peers over the edge in front of him. ▮▮▮v▮ is holding on by only a thin cable, straining but unable to pull himself back up. When their eyes meet, a shadow of the relief from earlier settles on his face.

" ▮▮▮▮▮," he says breathlessly, grimacing as he tries — and fails — to get a better grip. "Help me up, huh? Let's get outta here."

He nods. Reaches out to grab him, but the hand he sees isn't his own, can't be; it's silver and hard, and when he rotates his wrist to look at it, there's blood splashed across the palm. He can't. He can't let him touch this, knows that it will spread to him, poison him. Ruin him.

_I'm sorry._

His eyes flick back just in time to see ▮▮▮▮▮ reach out into empty air, expecting a hand and meeting nothing, and the shock on his face when he realizes. Their eyes meet, and when his strength gives out, neither of them are able to say a word. He watches him fall, and only a second too late does he finally reach for him. He isn't sure whether or not their fingertips brush, can't feel it through the metal, and can do nothing but watch as he disappears into the smoke. 

He opens his mouth to cry his name, and finds he can't remember what it used to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He's moving before he opens his eyes, before his mind can fully process waking. There are shouts, sounds of a struggle. Pain blossoming behind his right shoulder, and when he finally, sluggishly, slides into control of his own body, he finds himself facedown on the ground, arm pinned by the knee in his back and a small circle of pressure against the back of his skull. He doesn't move. Notes men in bloodied white coats stumble back nursing broken arms, broken noses; something small in the pit of his stomach reacts to the sight, but he doesn't know anymore to call it satisfaction. He's calm, placid, unresistant as they keep him down, listening as the door opens to fast talking. 
> 
> "— unprecedented violence, he lashed out as soon as we opened the chamber—"
> 
> "Maybe you disturbed a good dream," is the interruption, and a pair of nice Italian leather shoes stops in front of him, blocking his line of sight. A man looks down at him; if he strains to look from the corner of his eye, he can only just meet that look. "Well? Did we disturb your beauty rest?"
> 
> A few snickers echo through the back of the room, and he averts his gaze. They know he can't respond, and he doesn't know anyway. Can't remember what, if anything, he'd been dreaming about. Besides, it's better not to answer. He knows this. After a moment, and what he assumes is a gesture from the man, the pressure on his back and skull eases, and he's allowed to stand. They're about the same height, blond hair and blue eyes looking back at him; there's a sort of fire in them that he thinks he knows, even if he can't be sure. He's young, handsome, with an achingly familiar jawline and a smile that hurts for some inexplicable reason. His movements are measured, precise, with the purpose and determination of a man who knows just what he's doing. It sets off some strange pull in his chest, and he finds himself listening intently whenever he speaks.
> 
> "You have a new target," the man says, and he looks down at the dossier handed to him. Emblazoned across the front is a name, and a photo of a smug, mustachioed man grins back at him from the inside. Looking at it, the world suddenly feels off-kilter, and he doesn't understand why. "I want confirmed death in 24 hours. Collateral damage is permitted, but whatever you do, make it look like an accident."
> 
> "Why?" He croaks; his voice is hoarse from disuse, the word springing from his chest before he can stop it. He regrets it immediately, but it's too late. The question is in the air, and he finds that he wants to know the answer. Needs to know, or this mission will be a confirmed failure. 
> 
> The man stills, and there's an eerie silence that settles on the room. It was the wrong thing to ask. It always is. ( _He should know better by now._ ) He averts his gaze, looking to the floor quickly, as he waits for the punishment to his insubordination. 
> 
> A hand reaches out to him, and it takes all of his willpower not to flinch; instead, it settles on his shoulder, and he can barely feel it through the metal plating. Still, it quickens his blood and makes him dizzy, makes him both crave and fear the touch. "Progress, my friend. And he's standing in the way of it. Our world is far from perfect; right now, we need you to help us protect that world from someone who would do it — and us — harm." His finger taps the front of the dossier to punctuate, "This man. He presents a threat to our good work, and the work you've done and continue to do. We need your help to make sure that threat never comes to pass. Can we count on you to do that?" 
> 
> There's something in him that he doesn't recognize, some tiny part that furiously protests and makes him pause. That doesn't want to kill this man. But when he looks up into blue eyes, sees the grateful smile, everything goes quiet, everything drains away. He would do anything for those eyes, for the man who wears that smile; and this man standing in front of him knows it. The question is only a formality, a reminder of who he answers to. Still, he can't help being relieved when the situation ends quietly this time. 
> 
> Later, when they send him out into a winter snowstorm, he pauses, shifts the rifle on his shoulder. It's cold, colder than it has any right to be, and when he ducks his head, he doesn't know whether it's against the sharp wind or the strange emotion that floods his body. Something warm and comforting and sorrowful and empty all at once, that he can't put a name to. And he wonders, though he's not sure why, if he'll ever be able to find it again.


	6. sixth - 2015

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "thank you."

He is found, or rather lets himself be found, once he thinks he's ready for them to. Leaves a trail even a child could follow, and sits down to wait at the end of it in the burning shell of a former HYDRA base. A HYDRA base _he'd_ destroyed, and the blood is still dripping off his fingers when Captain Rogers and his winged friend break down the door. They nearly trip over themselves when they realize what they're seeing, and he doesn't say anything when their eyes meet. Rogers is quieter than his friend, who whistles appreciatively. 

" _Damn_ , man."

He holds out his wrists, waits for them to cuff him. Rogers walks up to him, and there's hesitation in his step. As if expecting him to make a break for it,to lash out and fight. He can't blame Rogers for it. After months of dodging them, it must seem impossible that he'd give up so easily. It's the truth, though. He's done. There is nothing left for him. He casts his eyes to the ground once Rogers is standing in front of him. Deference. 

_Do what you want with me._

A hand sets on top of his, and he freezes, trying to prepare himself. He doesn't like being restrained. He doesn't like it, sets his teeth on edge and makes his gorge rise. Makes him think of HYDRA, the things they've done to him. But he doesn't fight it, just takes a deep breath and waits.

" _Bucky_."

Rogers's voice is hoarse when he says it, and before he knows what's going on, Rogers is on his knees in front of him, arms tight around his shoulders. He freezes, eyes wide. He doesn't know what to do with this. It's so far from what he expected—

"Thank you," Rogers murmurs against his shoulder, "for still being here."

He says nothing. Somehow, though, he gets the feeling Rogers doesn't mean the HYDRA facility when he says _here_. Rogers doesn't clarify, though, and he doesn't ask, and they leave when his friend reminds them that the building is still on fire. 

They don't cuff him, and for the first time in what feels like decades, he feels like he can breathe.


End file.
